


Hurt

by pettiot



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alienation, Consent Issues, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Permanent Injury, deafness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:46:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22526524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettiot/pseuds/pettiot
Summary: Fenris is injured in the Chantry explosion and goes permanently deaf.
Relationships: Fenris/Isabela, Hawke/Fenris
Kudos: 2





	Hurt

Fenris opened his eyes into stillness, light, and pain.

He thought he must be waking after the lyrium again. But there could be no again for that. He had not trusted his body for months, cringing from air on his skin or feet on the floor, sure any touch would be the trigger to feel that bad again without any hope of dying.

He extracted himself from the rubble. His limbs were white, sand grating under his lids, in his mouth. Bruised, not broken. He poked his stomach, ribs. Thirsty. Under his eyes, inside his ears, as if a rope had been tied around his head and tightened, a perfect ring of pain silencing the body's demands. Around him, looters picked through the Chantry rubble, templars in incomplete armour and city guards striving with varying intensity to find other survivors.

The sky was smoky, full of silent birds.

Nothing warned him of the slide of broken stone from behind until the mass knocked him off his feet, ripping his calves. Stone embedded in his palms.

Compelled, Fenris tried to find his gauntlets. He stopped when he found the body of a child.

The city was eerily silent. People were running, sometimes fighting, black scarecrow flickers in his periphery. In the square before what had been the Chantry, Fenris felt vast amounts of magic pull at his brands, saw the flames and pocket storms dancing in the sky. Familiarity. Perhaps everything since the Qunari revolt had been a dream.

He saw feathers.

There was blood on the mage's back, a small circle around a rip in the robe. Disproportionately small for the amount of blood beneath him, gumming the stubbled cheek to the dirt. The wound was precise.

Fenris was not who he had been. He had known Anders for half the life he remembered. A few years in the middle of their acquaintance was an almost truce, finding enjoyment in provocation, the familiar back and forth. For all Anders' denial and his power, he had never denied Fenris the right to argue with him. So Fenris danced with the demon, almost longed to see what would happen if the mage lost control, the satisfaction he would feel. But then the demon had won, and Fenris felt no satisfaction, only a vague sense of loss for something he had never known to name. Could you like someone for being flawed?

Fenris felt distantly irritated that the mage could not perform his most basic purpose and immediately address the pain in his head. _Healing would be welcome._

A slow wound. Why had the mage not healed himself?

Fenris felt sharply alone, and afraid.

He sat and drifted for a while, above their bodies. Occupying this world in full would bring him pain again, humiliation, fear of his failing body. When he found his courage, he rolled the mage to his back and crossed unresponsive arms. Wiped the tacky blood from a stubbled cheek, and left white stone dust instead. Walked away. The eyes were closed already.

Kirkwall, city of ghosts. Citizens, looters, abominations, templars.

Fenris walked through a dream. Bloody footprints. So dizzy.

He went to the docks to see empty berths, sails already on the horizon. Ignored by looters as walking dead, grey grit on his skin near matching the walls around him, Fenris went to his home. The door was off the hinge, a fire burning through the window upstairs.

He went to Hawke's. His knock was not answered, but each weakening connection of fist with wood hurt his head. He felt the motion, not the sound.

Night came by the time Hawke returned, covered in blood and accompanied by a templar holding a helm.

A fighting stance. Recognition dawned slowly on a face wiped of emotion. Then Hawke's arm came around him, shaking, possessive with such a personal, specific passion Fenris could never have denied him. Should never had. The mouth said, ithoughtyouweredeadoyouwereinthechantryfenris.

'What?'

Hawke pulled him in before Fenris could think what meaning was in the moving mouth, grappling instead with grit and blood, tasting of vomit and dehydration and relief.

* * *

Isabela wondered who would say something about it.

They ate in the hall very late, with a fire Hawke lit in the hearth in Bodahn's absence. Hawke and Varric conversed quietly with Aveline, Sebastian gazing into the fire blankly, Merrill just as separate in one of two great chairs left after looters swept through. Isabela had the second.

Fenris stumbled down the stairs into the murmured conversation, bathed, bandaged and bruised, if looking more like himself in Carver's old, excessively large clothes than in armour mangled beyond repair.

Fenris looked around the room, tallying their count. He set his gaze on Hawke.

He interrupted without care, and too loudly. 'The mage is dead.'

And there it was.

Hawke's mouth was a line, thin enough the beard swallowed his lips.

Sebastian, already turning at sight of Fenris to greet him, stopped as if struck. Almost a hint of betrayal, 'In light of the harm he caused, his death is scarcely recompense.'

Fenris kept looking at Hawke, impassive. Isabela was impressed. You could have split a hair on the blade in that look.

'Someone stabbed him in the back.'

Hawke's shoulders curled unevenly. 'I never knew you cared.'

Sebastian said, 'Fenris, the harm Anders did was immeasurable! Think of yourself if you care nothing for the rest of Thedas. Even the harm done to you was at his hand. He deserved nothing more--'

Fenris was frowning, head tilting to the side. His hand raised, palm rubbing his temple, and interrupted Sebastian mid speech.

'I thought you should know. You were his friend.'

The last was conspicuously slurred, Fenris canting to one side as if unaware. Isabela was already moving.

Sebastian, voice dropping. 'Here, my friend, sit--'

He was ignored.

Hawke uncoiled, quicker on the approach. Isabela let him get there first.

'Fenris,' with that edge of rough Hawke could never hide, the space between them full of more touching than touch could ever hold. 'Are you all right?'

'He is beyond your help. I was not there to see who, I only found him, laid him out... But he was beyond your help the day he accepted that demon. You knew that.'

Fenris pulled away, veering to the kitchen.

'I did it,' Hawke said suddenly. 'Fenris, I killed him. You were right, I had to--'

Convincing nobody, Isabela thought. Or maybe not. He gave Anders exactly what he asked for, sad and sorry a gift it was. When fear was so huge it seemed death would be a relief.

_Better than a short life spent with a vocabulary of grr and argh. Anders would have hated that._

The thought was so hurtful she nearly startled herself to tears.

Then Fenris ran half his body into the doorframe passing through too fast, almost comically clumsy. Successful on his second attempt through, he slammed the door hard enough dust fell out of the wall.

'Interesting,' Varric said, quietly, by Isabela's elbow.

'Think our indestructible warrior was rather more rattled by being buried alive than he's letting on?'

'Wouldn't you be?' A forced chuckle. Faking it, Isabela thought, in an attempt to get into the mood. Anders' death had taken the life out of Varric, too. 'I haven't seen choirboy look so shafted since, well...'

'Since he was last properly shafted.'

'Did he even know I was here,' Sebastian asked no one.

Hawke almost shuddered. 'I wish you weren't.'

A different edge this time, the sword of Hawke's particular brand of caring burning both ways.

Sebastian stiffened. Then softened. 'You are correct, whatever your intent. Starkhaven will need me to assure their stability in the days to come. War will come of this, Hawke. You must take the Viscount's chair as Aveline advises. You owe it to the city of Kirkwall to give them the same after today's atrocities--'

'I paid my debts to this place with my mother's blood. I paid with my best friend's blood. Until four hours ago, I thought I had paid with my lover's blood. You know what I think, Starkhaven? I think you owe me. Don't make me say it.'

Isabela felt giddy at the threat. _Too much reality today. Never a good thing._

Sebastian bowed, only just. 'Hawke. Everyone.' A pause at the door, 'Pass on my best to Fenris.'

This door did not slam.

Hawke was already into the kitchen.

* * *

Just like bruises, broken ribs, the vertiginous headache, it would fade and he would forget he had even been afflicted.

He began tire of his own optimism. Not altogether convinced.

Days of recovery blurred events together. Looters having done what neglect could not, Fenris kept away from his old squat. He was needed here. The Champion suffered a constant stream of visitors beseeching or demanding aid.

youwearyourselftoashadow.idontneedabodyguardiwant.you.

'A bodyguard is a shadow,' Fenris agreed. 'I will not shame you, I swear it.'

Hawke looked pitying, or possibly hurt.

More than duty proscribed the role. Fenris was relieved to have a place in his new uncertainty. He mapped entrances and exits, barricaded weaknesses with Bodahn and guardfolk assisting. Paused frequently to let the vertigo settle. He learned the dark places in the hall. Waited, watched. Many suspicious types came to see Hawke, and Fenris did not trust the guard or templars. Why were they in a mage's house, standing guard or keeping prison?

youknowifyouwantanotherroomtherearefive.

'Thank you,' Fenris said, hedging his bets, before starting on his armour. Bodahn had moved a stand to the bedchamber's anteroom.

Hawke looked pleased and hungry, oddly upright in his bed with knees bent, flushed.

No. Thank you.

That was easy enough, Fenris thought, ceding to the familiar arms.

When exhaustion stopped simulating unconsciousness, Fenris woke lurching and afraid. He strove to clear the imagined bandage muffling his ears. It did not soothe him to find none.

His heart raced to find Hawke next to him, chest heaving with unheard snores. No bodyguard could serve where he could not hear an assassin's approach. An old habit, how to live on little sleep. Fenris kept his eyes open.

fenris.whydon'tyougohomeyouobviouslyarentcomfortablewithme.

'I will not leave you,' Fenris promised. 'I am yours, Hawke.'

The features were cool, but the body drew him in, no pity or horrid suspicion. A hit, Fenris guessed.

A body could scream while the face whispered lies. Gallows apostates buried themselves in Kirkwall's chaos, waiting for the docks to be unchained; blood mages made the first formal attempt on Hawke's life. Fenris did not let them live. The vertigo from his sudden action did not absolve him from failure.

Then Hawke berated him in front of everyone, shaking him. Blood dripped from Fenris' cupped fingers, bare and sticky. His gauntlets had not been recovered. The arcane bolt had claimed a chunk from his side, just under his ribs, seeping.

forthemakerssakefenriswhyareyoudoingthistoyourselfplease!pleasetrustme.lookatallthesebloodytemplarsandaveline'sguardsyoudon'tneedtodothisforme!

Hawke would be angry because of the lost chance to question the mages on their ringleaders. Beneath the beard his mouth made no sense, but the hands hurting his shoulders did. He embarrassed Hawke, for all he vowed he would not.

'There will be others, Hawke. You are right. Next time I will withhold for you to question them.'

An unreadable expression.

Fenris realised, he would have to learn his lover like a magister. Danarius had a code, twitches of fingers as to who to kill and who to spare, tilt of shoulders, in preference to speaking publicly to a slave. Fenris could not picture himself asking Hawke to use it. His mouth tasted sour.

Soon Hawke left the mansion and returned to the fight. Hawke instructed Fenris, fingers pointing angrily when Fenris stared blankly, as to whose command Fenris was to follow. Not Hawke's. Did he doubt Fenris capable? His balance was still awry.

Names were not shaped like words in this new language of mouth and face and guesswork. It should have been no harder than Qunlat for a stranger or common for a Tevinter with no history. But it was hard. He was tired. He marched with Aveline's men most, who knew him, who did not bother him when he ignored them. Fenris took no orders. He could not hear them.

It had been too long, Fenris knew one day. This would not heal.

Acceptance was his native state. Danarius had made him slave to what his body could do. And could not do, it seemed. Fenris resigned himself to his new limitation without knowing he had done so.

He woke afraid, groping, as if sound was something he could clasp and hold.

* * *

'Hawke,' Fenris said, astonished. 'Hawke killed Anders.'

Isabela looked at Varric, who shrugged. 'He told you. Don't you remember?'

And Fenris dropped his gaze, to his cards, to his drink, silence settling over him like a veil. There was colour in his cheeks, more than justified by the heat of the day, the lack of shade over the unofficial tavern spilling into one of Hightown's squares. Lowtown was still on fire; even Isabela had no desire to go down alone, just to find the ambience of her least favourite dive still intact.

'Brooding's no fun if you're just going to ignore our jokes about it,' Varric said.

Fenris ignored them, swapped two for three and played on.

'So,' Isabela flicked the corner of a card. 'We all know our Hawke is a passionate lad beneath that perfect mask. But I swear even a Crow would have shown more remorse.'

Varric poured from the amber jug. 'You know what they say. Calm on the surface; we could speculate all day on the emotional storm beneath.'

Fenris' blush deepened. He glared at his cards. Isabela nudged Varric beneath the table, lifting her chin.

'What are your thoughts, Fenris?'

It took him a long time to look up, finding them staring at him. He almost made a double take, eyes narrowing.

'I would not have stopped Hawke killing the mage, if he had good reason.'

'Heh.' Varric cricked his neck. 'That's one way to look at it. What's architecture and a few hundred innocents, after all? Not "good reason", in the elf's book.'

'You surprise me, Fenris. What happened to my bloodthirsty fugitive, bent on righteous vengeance? I thought you would have been all for it. Begging for his blood. At least, if you hadn't been buried under half the Chantry at the time.'

Fenris squinted at her mouth. Moved by something she could not name, Isabela shifted her chair, so the sun was not behind her. Fenris' gaze followed her, squint easing open, gaze flicking from her eyes to her mouth.

And Isabela suspected.

After some consideration, Fenris said, 'I never thought Hawke capable of backstabbing someone. He prefers the direct approach.'

'No more direct way to a man's heart than through his back,' Isabela said carefully, slowly. 'Did anybody tell you, Anders destroyed the Chantry?'

'Come on, Rivaini, it's all everyone's been talking about--'

She felt Fenris' chair lurch, saw his eyes widen.

Then the lashes fluttered, eyes lowering, fixed on the cards.

'Of course. Hawke told me.'

Straight across the top of Varric's ramble.

'Pardon me for talking while you were interrupting. Elf.'

Twice told, it did not mitigate the strain Isabela read on her friend's face. Felt it without words, an echo in Fenris of the impossible sinking greyness they had all felt on the realisation, standing around Anders' confession and knowing their own involvement, if only as those who stood back. Isabela saw again, Hawke grappling with his beltknife with his usually sure fingers slipping, uncertain, words steady, calm as his face. Grappling for any of them to offer him reason. Aveline had spoken on behalf of the city; and Hawke had acted first for himself, then on her word.

Fenris had not known. Had not even suspected.

Now Isabela knew.

She poured herself another drink, eying him, puzzled.

'If you knew,' Isabela said to the bowed head, 'then I am a Chantry virgin.'

Fenris only looked up when Varric's laugh jostled the table. He scowled, as if the joke was on him.

* * *

Had he been there, Fenris assumed he would have voiced his disgust.

Remembering the pathetic body with closed eyes, he hoped he would not have done more.

'Did you really think I was dead,' Fenris asked in bed. The candles on the sideboard were behind his shoulder, so he could best see Hawke's face.

Hawke bent and touched his mouth, with dirty fingernails and his palms ragged if clean, long shadows under his eyes. He did not belong in this satin room any more than Fenris did.

ilostfaith.

His eyes begged.

But Fenris could not. Could not unlock his solitude. Could not ask Hawke to repeat himself. Would bear the loneliness with Hawke's heat at his side. He would look out the window.

Hawke kept talking behind him, until Fenris said uncaring, 'Did you kill him because you thought I was dead at his hand?'

He had to turn to see.

Hawke looked upset.

yes.no.morethanjustyouforeveryone. becausehethoughthehadtherightbecausehewantedit. He bent, baring the unfortunate whorl where his hair thinned, pink skin showing. whatdoyouwantfenris.

Sympathy.

Fenris recoiled. Hawke gave Anders sympathy. Pandering, Fenris had thought, to a broken soul who could not bear reality, until the time came to put him down.

Hawke never coddled him the way he treated Anders. Only soft, broken things deserved coddling. Hawke contradicted Fenris, challenged, accused him of whining. A callous manner which assumed him stronger than silverite. Since Minrathous, Fenris had only his competence to his name, and the way Hawke treated him felt proud, right. Hawke was blind to his scars.

Fenris felt ugly when he took Hawke's mouth. Anything to stop more words.

The acting Knight Commander Cullen was a frequent visitor. Fenris learned to deduce the subject of conversation quickly, so his mind could hear what his ears missed. Cullen still set Fenris on edge, because Fenris did not know Cullen's role.

A weak templar, Fenris had thought him. Letting three known apostates live free; he had almost been Hawke's friend. Then, Hawke had executed Anders for his atrocities and accepted Meredith's brief command, simply to get close enough to Cullen that he could provoke the man to rebellion. A act of desperation by an apostate mage towards one templar who did not abuse his power?

But Fenris knew Minrathous well enough to survive even as a pawn, and he knew Hawke for a politician. A destablised Kirkwall permitted Hawke to easily establish the rule of a mage, with the Chantry-based support of a pet templar uncertain of his fresh command, and dependent on Hawke for his rule. Add Aveline's friendship with Hawke and the guard she brought, and Starkhaven's support; Hawke would not be easily removed.

Six years of maneuvering. A magister would have been proud.

Standing at his shoulder as the magister held audience, the back of Hawke's head had as little meaning to Fenris as the front.

But the neck was bowed. The neck was tired, a little sunburned, and Hawke still fought for the streets honestly.

Fenris clung to small things.

Fenris knew his sword. Held his sword.

Knew Hawke's beloved mouth better when wrapped around him, his fingers laced behind that bowed burned neck and relentless, pulling Hawke deeper, feeling him gag. Fenris pushed nightmares into the spaces between those lips. Keep them busy, keep them silenced. He wondered if he moaned when he came.

andersescapedintotheground, Hawke said one night, yawning. White at the corner of his mouth caught Fenris' eye, and Hawke covered his mouth to wipe it. iwishicouldfollowhim.

'Yes,' Fenris tried.

Hawke's eyes gaped unexpectedly. No window but a wound. Fenris thought he might have seen the soul.

fenris.no.whydoyou--

The shape of his name was familiar.

'Goodnight,' Fenris said.

youescapemeintothesesilences, Hawke said, almost bitterly.

Fenris would have buried himself in books. Fingered instead the parchment Hawke left beside his bed, on his desk, spotted with Anders' hurt, Anders' words tangled with a demon's ideal. These pages were marked now with Hawke's ink, striving to extract meaning from the dead man's void to build anew. And Fenris could not read to know his intent.

Could not hear.

Could not know Hawke.

He dreamed the sound of Hawke's voice ordering him to bend.

* * *

Aveline did not look pleased to find Fenris in their kitchen.

Donnic tactfully offered her wine from the nearly full bottle on the bench.

By former agreement, he and Fenris only smoked outside, and in exchange the quantity of freshly emptied bottles under the table would not be acknowledged. Certainly not by the two serving girls currently making marriages between their shared hand of cards. Fenris stoically ignored the mooncalf eyes and giggles, but more than the wine warmed his cheeks.

'No,' Aveline said, 'thank you. I ate at Hawke's before we ended the day.' She glared at Fenris. 'Not that you seem to care.'

Fenris licked a fingertip before tossing forward two cards. He looked up, saw the direction of Donnic's eye and said without turning, 'Good evening, Aveline.'

'Fenris, if I could flog you and get away with it I probably would. Forget the rest of my guard, if you must, but you nearly killed yourself running in like that. You fight with my men, you need to take my orders.'

The bottles rattled. Two pairs of wide eyes turned to him. Resigned, Donnic dismissed the girls, standing. 'Listen, Aveline--'

'No. You. Sit.'

Donnic put his hands on his hips and frowned.

'Husband,' Aveline said, with mild apology, 'I am sick of you covering for him. It's your life when you leap in after him.'

Her voice cracked.

'It's not that bad--'

'Week after week. We lost good guards today, Donnic.'

'We lost them to a Coterie contingent. Not to Fenris.'

'Hold the line, I call, and he breaks through instead. Leaving us open.'

Donnic rapped his knuckles on the table, placed his cards flat. He stepped closer to Fenris. 'I'm out, now the girls are gone. Your round.' He gestured. 'Add it to my tally, will you?'

'Donnic--!'

'At last, he surrenders the lost battle.' Fenris interrupted, with the flicker of a grin. He chopped his cards together and stretched. 'I need a piss break. A new hand when I return, or have you had enough?'

Donnic untucked a third chair for Aveline. 'We can deal Aveline in.'

She stared at him, angry and concerned, and sat. The chair creaked under armour's weight.

'Fenris,' Donnic called after the retreating back. 'Let's try diamondback. My luck might change.'

'Love,' Aveline said, terse, 'I am accustomed to Fenris' less than subtle evasions. Coming from you, it's unexpected.'

'Are you sure you don't want some wine?'

'You're pouring me a glass already.'

'You remember Fenris recovering from the explosion. Mostly superficial injuries, but the headaches and vertigo lingered for weeks.'

'I remember,' Aveline said, short. 'He was just as much a liability then, if a different one. Why he insisted on fighting--'

'Remember this is not his fault.'

'What's not his fault? I give no figs for his past, his insubordination is highly current.' Aveline subsided unhappily until Fenris returned, scowling at him again. 'You, I'm not letting this go. We will have words tomorrow, and if it takes Hawke's command to make you obey, so be it. Your embarrassment means nothing against my guards' lives.'

'Hawke doesn't like to play,' Fenris said, after a pause.

'What is that supposed to mean?'

Donnic gulped at his wine for distraction.

Deft, Fenris chopped the cards together again and offered the pack to Aveline to cut. Smiling at the force with which she did so. Dark wine bled along the stems of their glasses.

Then he dealt a round of Wicked Grace.

'But I thought Donnic wanted to play Diamondback--'

'By the Maker,' Donnic burst out, 'He can't bloody hear, Aveline. Or do I need to paint you a sign? Marigolds and bullrushes, maybe?'

Aveline let out a caught breath in a rush. 'But why didn't he just say--'

'If you want to talk behind his back, at least wait until he leaves.'

Fenris looked up when Donnic's fist thumped the table. 'What?'

'Does Hawke know?' Aveline said.

'Know what?'

Donnic could see the fear in his friend's eyes, in the impassive mask.

And Aveline blushed.

'...that you're here.'

Fenris sniffed sharply, touched his cuff to the corner of his mouth. 'I am a free man. Should I ask the magister's permission before breathing?'

Two further rounds of Wicked Grace before Donnic admitted his defeat for the night, timed with the last glass from the open bottle. Throughout, the conversation stayed within a predictable range, and so Fenris took part. How much could you talk about over cards, really? Donnic was not surprised Fenris sought his company more than any other these days. Fenris bade them goodnight awkwardly, collected his sword from the rack by the servants entrance, and left.

In bed, Donnic said to Aveline, 'Leave it. I mean it. It's not your secret to tell.'

'Hawke's heartbroken, you know. He thinks all this...surliness, this new violence. He thinks Fenris blames him for not searching, for leaving him for dead. This could--'

'I don't know whether it's right or wrong to tell, except Fenris tries to hide this, and I know Fenris, and that means he doesn't want people to know. Including Hawke.'

'I will not ignore this, Donnic. He fights with us. With you. With me! How am I to trust him when he can't heed commands in battle?'

'You trusted him before. He's the same person, he hasn't changed.'

'Of course he's changed. We fail as friends if we feign ignorance just to spare his pride.'

Donnic felt angry. He liked to think, on Fenris' behalf.

'You never even noticed. Or Hawke. And you think you can name yourself a friend?'

Aveline hissed. 'Well, excuse us for trying to save a bloody city from the void. The elf broods with the best of them, how were we supposed to know anything was different? Unless he told us or asked for help, like anyone normal would have done. It's not like Fenris hasn't asked for help before.'

'You should have noticed, because it's bloody obvious that something's wrong with him, that's how! He shouldn't have to beg your assistance.'

'Pardon,' Aveline said, scathing. 'I thought he hadn't changed. Now you think there is something wrong with him. How about we work to fix it.'

Donnic turned his back. 'I'm not talking about this. Fenris deserves better.'

'That,' Aveline said, 'is what I am trying to say.'

They slept facing away, but woke tangling fingers and yawns without teeth, a lazy physical apology.

'I had an idea,' Aveline said. 'Tell me what you think.'

* * *

After three months, the fight for the city converged at the docks, the last ungoverned district. Trapped by the city's chain.

So close to freedom. Fenris, too, did not know how to swim.

This deployment came from Hawke's command, the city's forces consolidated. Hawke himself stayed beneath the command centre's canopy, held by four martial elves dressed in Starkhaven colours, with the Knight Commander and the Captain of the Guard at his side. Kirkwall's sigil flapped above, Hawke's crest, and Andraste's bursting sun.

Targeted from rooftops, a friendly barrier stopped the arrows, permitting what Fenris assumed was an ordered break for cover. The hexes made it impossible for slaves to riot in large numbers, and as impossible for soldiers to force peace.

When Hawke's barrier broke, the hairs on Fenris' arms, his nape rose. Lyrium ached like bones. He flattened against a wall, Donnic crashing to his side. The second cohort charged ahead.

The triggered explosions tore the street apart, fear caterwauling in Fenris' skull. He ran. Remembering little of the Chantry explosion, the shivering ground recalled what he did, a wrongness beyond pain. Even the feel of magic laced with sacrifice felt the way his last memories of the Chantry did, like skin stretched to tearing.

Dust, cobbles, smoke and dirt. Solid cover. Fenris lost Donnic with one last flash of shield.

His instinct was to kill or cower; Danarius had always known this. Flight was a taught trait.

Without his hearing, Fenris felt blind to the sides and rear. He wanted to set his back to something, yet had no desire to die in a corner. He wove through displaced air and heat. He had never been so terrified in a fight. No clink or rattle of gear to warn him of a knife in his back. Only his skin, the lyrium a surplus sense useless against a rogue, a warrior.

Fenris flickered through a door, punched through the barricade from the inside and ripped the door from its hinges, calling to any guard who might hear. He raced his heartbeat on the stairs.

Three mages, a fourth dead in a pool of blood. He startled them, gaping mouths red like wounds. Fenris streaked through the Veil and a demon answered his power, one mage screaming into the shape of an abomination.

Fingers dripping, Fenris fought his own vertigo and stood on the parapet, watching the last mage spiral to a death too quick for the half formed glyph to save her.

The building across the street exploded.

Harsh heat and blood. Fenris lost his greatsword, and took two longswords from a fallen guard. Inexplicably, he found Carver Hawke just as they were circled by thirty shades stinking of kelp. When Carver cleared an opening and ran, Fenris nearly did not know to move, Carver dragging him by the shoulder, a shade's claw raking through armour like smoke.

Fenris woke under the scarlet banner of Hawke's command centre, where nine Gallows mages healed in turns protected by Starkhaven archers. The second time he fell and woke, a strange mage cupped Fenris' chin, tapped the cheekbone near Fenris' ear.

Can! You! Hear! Me! Maker, wherethesebastardsgotblackpowder...

Fenris shook free, Hawke's eyes on him. Hawke had commissioned this new armour he wore; the damaged part threatened his ribs.

Giddy, Fenris unbuckled the chestplate first. Let the broken metal fall where Hawke would hear the clang.

He fought in his underpadding, bloodsoaked.

Joining a templar movement, Fenris was there when they found a building with some hundred civilians within, confused and freshly freed from thrall. Fenris could see the light in their faces on recognising Hawke's sigil. The Champion. That which returns stability.

The discovery warned of a second trap. Hundreds of sick and dying looted as weapons, slaves or slavers, alienage elves, Darktown rabble. They cascaded from buildings at the pinchpoint of an ambush, bottling Kirkwall's guards in a square. They wielded broken glass, flaming bottles, their fingernails, wood ripped from the jetties, shafts of cheap sharpened metal.

The guards recoiled from the horror, the templars massacred like metal golems, and Fenris stopped.

Not their faults. Thralled. These people needed to be killed twice, rising from their first deaths as jerking puppets. No skill, only the relentless numbers.

Isabela was at his back, blades flashing.

She caught him, turned him. There was blood on her lips.

whatareyoudoing?pickup the sword!

Isabela never bothered to guard her expression. She was unafraid, and afraid for him. Fenris studied the curves and thought of Hawke, aching. Those eyes of sky which twice saw him fall and saw him resurrected, crawling back to a fight for a city not his own, without acknowledgement. It was his place, Fenris thought, for all he was no thrall. He thought.

fightforme, Isabela said. Or we die here.

Inevitably, they were separated.

The second time hopelessness stopped him, Merrill erupted from the ground at his back, the tangle of elvhen blood, familiar fingers. A shockwave of blood magic, and the wall of crazed flesh surrounding him cowered and crumpled.

Then it was over, in a shower of blood and gore which drenched them both.

Over everywhere. The templars who had been running for them now slowed, wary at the sudden death.

Fenris helped Merrill to her feet, keeping the slashed wrist hidden against his own.

No celebration. Not yet. Survivors were grim. Hawke's mages had bloody hems on their robes, tending bodies without checking sides. The templars dispensed lyrium and supporting shoulders as necessary.

Anders should have been here, Fenris thought. Death was too merciful.

Then Merrill crumpled at his side, shuddering and cold, whiter than sand. Fenris sat with her to keep hidden the telltale wound.

Fenris bent to thank her for his life.

It elicited a babbled spill of words and tears he could not follow, even trying, staring at her pale mouth. The fluttering free hand contradicted what he thought she said. The blood she had not enough of coloured her cheeks.

Isabela's warm hand closed on his shoulder.

You're embarrassing her, sweetheart.

Isabela offered a potion. Merrill took it, and the opportunity to leave. Too many templars. Even Fenris thought so.

'I was thanking her.'

A laugh, andhaven'tyouchanged. Walk me home. ihaventseen the Hanged Man for months.

Hawke's pavillion would be waiting, installed outside the Hanged Man.

Fenris was dizzy. Arm in arm. For once, Isabela showed no interest in claiming the stuff from the ragged bodies. There would be a surplus irrespective, Fenris thought.

He felt her talking through the heave of rib against his arm. He tried to read the words from her profile.

'What?'

She repeated herself, You have to tell Hawke.

For a wild moment, Fenris hated her, as if everything else, the months of gruelling obstruction, today's massacre, was subsidiary to the admittance she proposed. Petty and shamed. He was never more than a slave, concerned only for his own skin, his own shame.

'Tell him what.'

Her nostrils flared, shoulders rising and falling.

You could tell me first. For practice.

The affection between them could have allowed it. Three nights sharing a bed, then the unsteady realisation that they could offer each other more outside the sheets. Fenris opened his mouth, felt his lips burn to part.

He stopped, suddenly, drowning in weariness.

Hawke's pavillion was at the top of the street, Hawke himself striding down towards them. His armour was immaculate, and more of satin than steel. As a magister should be.

Fenris dropped his gaze, and let Isabela turn his chin towards her.

Take a break and come with me, if you can't. Yet. My ship leaves in a fortnight, assoonasthe chain comesup. A supply run, one month outandback.

His body shook in denial. Not at running, which appealed to him already. More for what fleeing would admit.

_I failed._

Hawke needs me, Fenris wanted to say. Too thick, with someone else's blood on his tongue.

Or he needed Hawke.

A reason to rise. Despair was easy to combat; all Fenris felt was a great weariness with no foreseeable end. Easier to let his sword drop in the face of horror. He did not fear death. Only acceptance. Too close to resignation.

That can't make it any easier, Isabela said, and ceded him to Hawke's shining shoulder.

* * *

The days and nights blurred while reclaiming the city; Garrett could have excused Fenris' quick and fast fucks then. Now, when they had time, Garrett had no name for this pain in his chest.

This would be the third time today.

He should not be displeased. Fenris had his own room, Hawke made sure it was set up, told him if he ever wanted the space it was there. But Fenris stayed in Garrett's bed instead. Even when Hawke stumbled in late, knocking over Fenris' armour, Fenris slept trustingly until Hawke's weight would sink the edge of the bed, and his eyes would snap open, hunting for Garrett's face in the dark.

Garrett tried to talk. Wanted to talk. Lying together, he wanted to hold Fenris in the light of that dim, slowburning candle that Fenris lit like a ritual every evening. They used to talk a lot. Fenris never had success with reading, Garrett a poor teacher, so they would talk stories instead. Fenris contested every happy ending, nor did he like tales with heroes crushed by the loss of everything before they could discover the silverite core of personality which would let them rise. Fenris most liked stories of people's lives, boring stories, of how a girl child learned to make bread, or how a family built a successful trade route, or how a soldier trained a horse out of its fear of battle.

Garrett thought, how can I know this precious thing of him, and still find nothing to say?

Garrett would try, try to crack this new armour of abstraction, while Fenris would peer at him in the candlelight and--

Fenris' lips forcing kisses. Pulling closer, Fenris' already aroused. This was what he got, attempting to talk after they made love. Garrett did not want to say no; Fenris never used to touch so much.

Well, it was all there was left.

Thrust; hurt in a bone deep way which battlefield healing would not eradicate, and the Champion of Kirkwall had no healer to trust with intimate parts.

Fenris continued.

Clinging to those shoulders, Garrett suddenly found it difficult not to think of this as punishment. As if Fenris had decided, I will give Hawke what he asked for many times, and see if he likes it.

The desperate hands moved over the same bruises. Fenris' mouth shaped words between Hawke's shoulderblades, biting and sucking. The hurt and sweat and grit took the place of sex, of pain ceding to pleasure.

In a heartbeat, Fenris was nothing he wanted inside him, and Garrett forgot he ever had.

'Fenris.' His hands slipped from the bedhead. Said to the pillow, 'Fenris. Slow down.'

Nothing.

Nothing nothing nothing.

Only Fenris' desperation.

Nausea. Garrett threw Fenris from him with instinct, the mental reaction as unthought as shrugging his shoulders. Garrett scrambled after Fenris immediately, nausea welling with each move, his mouth full of spit. Fenris lay on his back, groggy, blinking as Garrett loomed over him.

Fear. Except this time the fear did not fade when Fenris saw Hawke.

'Why--' Fenris' eyes widened. ' _Did I hurt you?_ '

The rage Hawke felt was not his. Small wonder Fenris preferred stories of daily life, of concrete achievement, when emotion would always betray a mage. So easy to reach beyond the veil and find the true form of this emotion, even without blood magic.

Garrett struggled for his humanity.

'I can't believe you even have to ask. Do I have to beg before you'll deliver some relief? Is that what you want from me?'

Garrett saw the knife in his best friend's back, his own shaking hand. Anders had begged. Garrett had trusted. Then he saw Fenris, who he still trusted, until a heartbeat ago.

Garrett forced the elf to the bed.

Disgust at his own intentions had him recoil then, almost across the room, except Fenris parted his legs, lifted his hips. Reached his hands back, weight on one shoulder, profile in the sheets. Fenris never said no to this role, but also never initiated. He held himself open, sweating profusely, his erection flagging.

'Hawke. If you want... Come back, please. I want...'

More than muffled. Awkward and stilted. Fenris never said, did things like this; the usual articulation slurred. Garrett could see the clenched jaw, every muscle set to brace.

It was all so sick and confusing Garrett had nothing to say.

* * *

The puppy at Aveline's calves had her ears down, posture wary. Aveline had to agree. Standing closest, Hawke was already shaking his head, Fenris by the fire, hunched and tired. They had never been a pair for public affection, but even Aveline had been capable of seeing the space between them webbed with their connection. And as uncertain as she had been with their relationship, the risks they posed to each other's understanding of the world, they never used to feel this way together, that strange space between them miserable, all those lines snarled and tangled.

Hawke finally bent, flicking his fingers at the puppy's wary nose. 'I can't, Aveline. It's only been three years since Mantzou died, I wouldn't feel right with another pretty lady--'

'I know. This little girl's not for you. Listen--' Aveline flushed unexpectedly, and cursed herself. Awkwardly, she raised an arm. 'Fenris.'

He had been paying attention to them. Of course he had. He turned smoothly enough Aveline could almost believe his response due to his name. If not for the casual way Fenris tried to approach, noting the pause in their conversation, seeing her head turn towards him in his periphery, needing to make the assumption she had called without quite knowing, hence the casual approach as if he had spontaneously chosen to stand by Hawke's side, his hands free of gauntlet and hanging clumsily, balling and loosing, while Hawke looked down and away.

Preserve her from idiots hung on their pride. So, it was not her place. Neither was it her place to stand back and watch her friends destroy themselves. She cared not at all if they walked away from each other. She cared too much seeing Fenris curl into himself after watching six years of him unfurling his roots and presence into the city. His potential for destruction had always alarmed her, and she would not see him destroy the trust built between them through those years.

Aveline held Fenris' gaze. 'Spend enough time with Fereldans, they try to adopt you. This...she's not got a name yet. Basic training, definitely housetrained, and she's ripe for imprinting. I remembered how well you got along with Hawke's old hound, before the Arishok--'

Fenris' brow creased, trying to follow her words.

'If you and she find some common ground, mabari are very easy to train, particularly for battle. If you must insist on running into the fray, she could be someone to always guard your back.'

Fenris' eyes widened, just. His gaze flicked to her ears, then her mouth.

Aveline could almost see him wondering. _Of course I know, you git._

'Where did you even find a mabari?' Hawke, ever impervious to subtlety.

'Dog lords. You remember clearing out their den a while back, detailed investigation found a breeding pit in the cellar. I've encouraged the guards to take most of the puppies.'

'Adding a contingent of mabari can't hurt. What with your losses to date.'

'I thought of Fenris,' Aveline said.

'If you don't want her, there'll be someone else,' Hawke said. 'Mabari are rare here.'

Fenris looked at Hawke, his mouth mulish. He went to his knee and held out a hand to the puppy, who sniffed uncertainly. The tail uncurled into a slow, fullbodied wag.

'Oh, great,' Hawke said, a strange tone in his voice. 'I hope you know you're picking up after her.'

The puppy was licking Fenris' fingers now, his palm, moving rapidly onto the gnawing. Fenris did not straighten. Hawke stared a moment longer at the scene and walked away, up the stairs, the study door slamming behind him.

Aveline touched Fenris' shoulder. He looked up.

'We train the dogs every morning at six, and again at eight in the evening. Come when you can.'

'Thank you,' Fenris said, roughly, as if he had not spoken for weeks.

* * *

Hawke was talking, Fenris knew it.

The feeling of being penetrated stopped being disconcerting a few years ago. Fenris knew objectively what aspects could arouse him, if he focused. It was always too big, but he could be prepared. His stomach knotted, but he could remember even now, the way Hawke looked at him, really looked at him, as if he was worth wanting. The sensation of wrongness, of having something moving where it was not supposed to go. The stretch and relief, until the stretch was as desired as the relief of the withdrawal, the ragged strokes which hit that place of him like lightning. The weight of Hawke on his back, the strength of his own muscle to hold them both up. But coming into it cold was more difficult to embrace, almost moments of sweat-fear and panic; Fenris liked it better when lust was rampant already, almost like alcohol, easing the burn and excusing what he might ask for in desire.

Hawke never waited these days.

Face down, he could not even attempt to know what Hawke was saying at his back.

Hawke liked to talk, Fenris knew.

_Look how ready you are. You want me to put my dick in there. Is this like Danarius used to do you? You want me to do you the way he used to? Beg me for my come. Beg me to put my come in you._

Hawke could shout whatever he wanted. Scream vile, degrading abuse at the back of his head.

_I'm going to blind you and bind you, and sell your arse for what it's worth. If I've even made back in a week what it costs to feed your pitiful body, I would be surprised._

Fenris would never know. His silence could be assumed as permission.

_Want to put my hands around your throat. Want to feel you die around my dick, then I breathe you alive again, my breath in your lungs, my blood in my your blood. I will own every inch of you, every day you breathe again._

Would never--

His knuckles were almost white, clenching around the bedhead.

'Hawke!'

His cry surprised himself, feeling it from his unhappy stomach, ripping through his throat.

A palm slapped against his thigh, fingers digging into his buttocks, too close to the prick already splitting him.

'Hawke, no, Hawke--'

He was moaning, he knew. As if something had broken in his throat, and he could not hold it back. The carved wood crumbled under his fingers. Could not stop the sounds, could not stop himself. He was hard and terrified, and felt vaguely like he wanted to urinate. The penetration was intolerable.

'Ha-awke--'

Hands turned him, the bearded face too close to his. All through cloth, through distance. He could never know another person again. Lips moving without sound, the beard rubbing against skin raw from before. Fenris tried to arch away. Fingers stroked his face, smelling like sex. Streaking his skin. If comfort was intended, he felt it as mockery.

It occurred to him he had the power to prevent this, and Fenris let his lyrium flare.

A second later he was flying, falling, hitting the floor. Hawke stood over him, face a tangle of emotion.

getoutthen.getout.ifitsallwehaveandyoutrytokillmefor.idontevenknowwhatfor. Get out! Out!

Ordered like a dog.

No, Fenris thought. That's not what--

In the face of his silence, Hawke went to the opposite side of the room and faced the corner, the muscles of his back hard, knotted. The breath lifting and spreading his ribs looked like speech, but Fenris could not, just could not reach and say.

He put on his clothes, then his armour, shaking.

'I will go.'

Hawke flinched as if punched.

Vorax was already awake, panting anxiously at the bedroom door. She followed as Fenris flew down the stairs.

At least mabari could swim. She might save him from drowning.

'I won't ask,' Isabela said, yawning and lovely even having risen from her bed, one of the few built in berths in the tiny ship. 'But you'll have to work your way. And your sweet lady better not chase the cats.'

Vorax rarely whined, Fenris had been told. A dog as silent as her master. She lifted a paw and cocked her head instead, and Fenris let his neck bend, his fingers coming to rest on the silken fur.

* * *

Hawke wanted to ball up the letter and throw it. He wanted to light it afire. He wanted to put it in his shirt next to his heart.

Hawke smoothed the wrinkles against his chest and read it again.

_Our brooding friend has decided to take to a life on the sea. Shortly, I suspect, the air will clear his head and he'll blow back into Kirkwall, along with our two monthly supply delivery -- or maybe not, because who can tell? He's asked me to write all sorts of frustratingly untrue things about how it would never work between you and he, rather cunningly slanted to send you into fits of rage and hatred for his person, because apparently he can deal with hatred and has no idea how to deal with hurt. Patently, Hawke, I refuse to get involved. I write so you know he hasn't vanished under another crumbling organisation; likewise, please spare me from any tirades of vengeance and retribution, as this is no abduction. We will see you soon, pending further Qunari dreadnaughts, storms, mage revolutions, etcetera._

Beneath, because Fenris had demanded to learn the shape of his name before even his letters, then refused to learn more as he determined the unsteadiness of his hand was a sign of weakness, the expected and uncertain signatory.

Hawke placed the letter on his desk, his hand shaking.

'I need him,' Hawke said. 'Aveline, Cullen, they all want something from me. Fenris...wanted nothing except me.'

'If you start blubbing into your wine again I'm going to punch you.'

Easier to glare. 'What did I do to deserve a brother like you?'

'I ask myself that question every day.' Carver stretched awkwardly, joints popping under his shirt, and eased a shoulder. Stationed in the city proper, he was close enough to move back into the estate, but not spared so many days out of his armour.

Even hearing the strain, the outflung arms and flexing biceps still looked like posturing.

'Messere Fenris will be away for some time, I take it?' Bodahn moved to collect the empty wine glass from the desk before Hawke's corresponding yawn and stretch could knock it off. 'I wish him the best.'

'Why does everyone take his side! It's not as though we fought, he just--left.'

'Again,' Carver said. 'You must be doing something right.'

Bodahn shrugged. 'I can't imagine it would have been easy for him here, what with the change. Recovery is sometimes easier with a bit of distance. Get a new outlook on life, a new way to cope with things.'

'Again, this assumption I'll turn into a monster just because people keep trying to shove me towards the Viscount's throne. I am no magister.'

Bodahn raised his eyebrows, puzzled. 'As you say. Meanwhile, I still remember what it felt like when one of Sandal's explosions went off too close. I was lucky, there was a healer nearby. Still, a full week of constant ringing before I could start to hear again! I don't think Fenris was so lucky.' A pensive look. 'Then again, I did see what was left of the Chantry. Maybe he was lucky.'

Hawke worked his mouth around the words, and none seemed to suit the shape his mouth wanted to make.

'What?'

'It's going to have to stop being funny soon, the way Aveline calls Vorax to get Fenris to come,' Carver said, almost thoughtfully, and grinned. 'Hey, Big Brother. Maybe that was your problem. Calling the wrong name in bed.'

'What,' Hawke repeated.

And heard his own disbelief break.

* * *

Fenris did not like the ship.

But then the coastline dropped away, and the air was clean and the sky clear. His body settled into the pattern of this new work, his palms accustomed to rope and his feet to the boards. He packed his armour away, his leather unders, which chafed; he gambled for linen and cotton clothes off another sailor his size and won the woman's only shirt. The exposed parts of him, hands and shins and face, tanned darker than even he expected; he was always inside, he supposed, or haunting the night.

Vorax befriended the ship's ancient cat readily, taking on rat duty, the adolescent muscles growing heavier by the day. When not hunting, she tapped at his heels or found a place to sleep in the sun until her dark fur crackled with heat, and she would rise, staggering and gasping, to find drinkable water.

No sense in some, Isabela noted. No matter how smart they are.

Initially, Fenris only knew Isabela. Familiar faces amongst the crew, considering she had to staff the ship with the Hanged Man's motley crew, who became the first few of his association. There was no expectation. Accustomed to the wind snatching their words away regardless how loud the bellow, and accustomed to the casual nighttime piracy requiring their silence, the sailors used a supplementary system of communication, arms and hands spinning, gesturing, cartwheeling, to indicate the action and attention necessary. Fenris learned the gestures quickly, recognising his hunger, learned the ship's motion just as quick; when this sail filled, this rope flew, this other compensated; when Isabela or her first mate at the helm would lift the right arm and spin the wrist, Fenris knew what would follow.

The structure grew into him, the ability to predict the range of responses a comfort. The male sailors wore ragged stubble but rarely beards; salt made them itch. Fenris felt useful, competent. Ready to learn, the learning itself within his reach and comprehension instead of a daunting impossibility. Even the grunt force of the occasional stint at oars did not bother him, the rhythm felt through bare feet on the deck if not the drums.

The sailors realised his limitation without comment, tapping him on the shoulder before speaking or moving to stand in front of him. They used Vorax for what Aveline had trained her to do without hesitation, until Fenris learned to follow the prick of her ears, where she would turn her head. In a crew where missing eyes, limbs, morals were filled with all manner of contrivance, Fenris supposed relying on a dog for ears was not unusual.

At least she's not a parrot, Isabela said in passing, pausing to rub Vorax's large belly with a booted foot.

Fenris was essential, but not irreplaceable; his skills had nothing to do with his lyrium, his murderous capabilities, and all to do with the hands and willing body he provided. If he were to leave, no one would hunt him down. No one would mourn him.

This was freedom in a way he never considered, without resentment for what duty there was.

Fenris joined in on the off-shifts, cards or dice. Only once did he seek out Isabela, with the half-hearted thought of either convincing her to join them, or allowing her to convince him to stay in her bunk, in her bed, with the polished wood desk and her treasured maps, the intriguing implements she used to chart their course from stars.

No, Isabela said. You want to stay or go, you stay or go. I won't be doing any convincing here.

Vorax dropped to the deck so hard Fenris felt it through his feet.

Angry? But Vorax's fur was still sleek, the tilt of her head puzzled, not warning.

'If I offend, then I apologise. Captain.'

And she let him go.

Isabela's distance repelled him, a raw shock after knowing her warm, teasing. But Isabela was still Isabela at other times, only Isabela the Captain on this ship, Isabela the Astronomer, the Navigator, the Mathematician, the Merchant, the Privateer. All paths and skills as unreadable to him as literature.

The first dock she negotiated a trade on Hawke's behalf, she used the sailors to stock the ship's holds and Fenris worked with the rest, hot and hard, shirtless amongst the others to spare himself the chafing from salt-stiff linen, and no more or less tattooed, branded or scarred than the next. Calling him to her side as she finished the purchase, Isabela then dragged him off to a tavern where she was her landbound self, and his shirtlessness and her lack of trousers, seemed more usual than elsewhere.

The brawl which broke out saw Vorax at Fenris' back, and for the first time in a long time Fenris felt like himself in a fight, not a liability. Exaltation had him stumbling in gleeful spirits to Isabela's rented room, where Isabela was no magician, only a friend, and the sex was easy and forgettable, just as it had been before, when they decided to be friends instead.

I don't want you thinking you should be following me, Isabela had said then, pained. Following my orders, maybe. On my ship, maybe. The rest of the time, you'd probably end up in a gutter right by my side, then who would help drag us out?

The shame struck him after, looking at Vorax lying with her nose pressed to the crack between door and floor.

For Hawke, for the way he kept Hawke out, out of fear, for the way the sex, which was all he could give, became the weapon it did. Isabela let him turn, let him try to crush her with his arms, as if the ache inside could be squeezed out. She moved her head so they were apart on the pillow and he could focus on her lips. The light was behind him, and he saw her face clearly, tired, older, smudged with drink and sleep and bruises from his kisses.

Fenris struggled to speak, because it seemed he should. He reached to touch the mark at the corner of Isabela's mouth, his fingers shaking.

As if sensing the critical event over, Vorax leaped atop them, falling between. Her head whumped to the pillow. Isabela shook with laughter, and made room. She rose to an elbow and looked across the sleek furred back.

Feel better?

'So to speak. Uh...and you?'

Oh, it was all right; can't say your form has improved. Do you like my ship?

'More than I expected.'

A broad grin. You know, if you stayed, I could make a proper sailor of you in half a year. You're quick. And hard. Working, that is. The pay would be a lot better. You might actually make a profit, instead of Vorax eating your wage.

The shape of her lips was perfect, Fenris thought, enough that he can hear without hearing, smile without needing the full meaning.

'Do you expect me to stay?'

Isabela laughed, which made Vorax sigh and stretch in an attempt to push the pirate off the bed, casting unhappy eyes to her master.

I told you already. You want to stay or go, you stay or go. Isn't that what you want?

* * *

The mabari was large enough Garrett did not recognise her, until she halted at his feet, tail wagging slowly. Unafraid. The markings were familiar.

Vorax would never pounce; Fenris would not have condoned it.

Fenris was harder to read at this distance, still halfway along the the jetty. Steadily, slowly. His skin was dark against the unbleached linen, his forearms bare, the lyrium almost faded into salt and sun burn.

'Huh.'

'Not even hello,' Garrett said, and swallowed. 'I've been waiting here all day.'

'I doubt that. Unless the demands on your time have changed, Viscount.'

Garrett rubbed his bare chin, startling himself again. 'They haven't. Just my priorities.'

Fenris tilted his head, lip quirking. 'I'm not sure it suits.'

'What, the humility? Or the naked face?'

A scoff. 'What humility. I mean the naked face.'

Garrett always found it difficult to let his emotion show. To let the mask drop, caretaker for mother and sister and brother, then caretaker for a city Garrett never let the hurt really show, body language, expressions, even the tone of his voice carefully manipulated. Manipulative.

Garrett rubbed his bare cheek again, uncomfortable. No script, only a canvas.

'You'll have to get used to it.'

Warm dry fingers ghosted where his hand had been. That was something else which changed. Garrett gasped at the touch.

'I should help unload,' Fenris let his hand drop. 'They are probably calling for me already. And cursing my deaf back, and calling Vorax instead to bring me.'

The tone was flat, and still off in volume, intensity; it had been getting closer to this those months after the damage, Garrett recognised in retrospect. If he had bothered to recognise at all back then. But the face was increasingly unguarded, the eyes making up for the loss.

'I missed you,' Fenris said. 'I should have told you. I was afraid.'

That he can admit it. That he can admit any of it. Garrett felt the coward.

'I should have noticed. Everyone else did.'

'You are not everyone.' Fenris followed Vorax's gaze back to the ship. 'I will see you later?'

Garrett grabbed that bare wrist and felt inexplicably daunted. 'Are you...are you staying? Or--'

'We are in dock for a fortnight.'

'And then you're going again.'

'And then I go again.'

'Please stay,' Garrett heard himself say.

Fenris contemplated him.

'If I had been struck blind,' he began.

Garrett's eyes burned.

'It would have been obvious. Would have severed me so completely from this life I would have had no choice but to build myself anew. If I had lost a limb, I would have lost only this...marked flesh, which still fills me with anger and pain on those days I cannot resign myself. But this,' the hand hesitant in touching the ear. 'Which no one sees, and comes the expectation I should be as I always was. I kept waiting for the compromise I knew would not be forthcoming, a compromise that I despised even as I wanted it.'

Garrett looked out to the horizon and blinked. He could smell Fenris, this close. I shaved my beard for you, Garrett wanted to argue. Never enough.

'Kirkwall is falling apart,' Garrett said instead. And I have given everything, and I am still useless. 'The Chantry wants me, Fenris. A mage in power over a city which exploded. My days are numbered.'

'I had heard,' Fenris said, without irony. 'I had thought about it. That is why I thought, perhaps you would want to come with me.'

At the ship's gangway, Isabela stood against the horizon. She wore a sailor's cap on her head, but only just; there was too much hair. She waved, followed by an obscene gesture.

'I have survived,' Fenris said, 'despite all my efforts otherwise. Come with me, Hawke.'

'You ask for such difficult things,' Garrett tried to quip.

Fenris looked hesitant, the confidence rolling in his stride lost. Garrett hated and loved that he was the one to cause the change. The tanned face struggled to open. Garrett was suddenly desperate to communicate.

'Of course.'

'Well,' Fenris said, uncertainly. 'You know where to find me.'

In the absence of miracles, it felt very fragile. But so much had been destroyed, and he had not destroyed this, and the relief was warm as the dog against his legs now nudging him forward.


End file.
